


Tip-toes

by losthitsu



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-16
Updated: 2012-10-24
Packaged: 2017-11-12 10:09:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/losthitsu/pseuds/losthitsu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> Friends-with-benefits arrangement is the most elegant solution of relationship matters in France's opinion, and he has no desire whatsoever to fall into anything more complicated - or so it was supposed to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Scotland that I'm using here, just as his relationship dynamics with France are to a great extent inspired by Scotland from [](http://moonlighten.livejournal.com/profile)[**moonlighten**](http://moonlighten.livejournal.com/)'s [Feel the Fear](http://moonlighten.livejournal.com/1427.html) and [](http://nekoian.livejournal.com/profile)[**nekoian**](http://nekoian.livejournal.com/)'s [Sewn On](http://nekoian.livejournal.com/) series.
> 
> Huge thanks to [](http://moonlighten.livejournal.com/profile)[**moonlighten**](http://moonlighten.livejournal.com/) for all the edits, corrections, feedback, and inspiration, and lots of love with a massive thanks to dear [](http://nekoian.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://nekoian.livejournal.com/) **nekoian** , who mercilessly attacked my weak spots and restlessly pushed me towards improvement, and who helped me to find joy in my own writing again. 

Although it nearly costs France one of his carefully manicured nails to tie a knot in the terrycloth, the white towel now rests securely around his hips. The act itself is useless since Scotland is anything but a stranger to his body, and the disappointingly small white towel covers only the most substantial parts of France's anatomy anyway. But it's the idea of mystery, the little bit of magic that can be brought into what was bound to become routine and boring after seven hundred years of intimacy, that makes him do this time and time again. 

 

France winks at his own reflection, satisfied with how the little pretence of chastity makes him feel a bit like a birthday present waiting for Scotland to unwrap it, despite the contents being so familiar. Stepping off the flimsy little rug in front of the mirror, he winces as his feet make contact with the cold bathroom tiles and he quickly tiptoes out of the bathroom. 

 

The hotel room is small and cramped as only very few governments are willing to offer luxury to their nations human personifications and the French one is definitely not one of them. The scant excuse for a double bed is taking up almost all of the space in the room, and Scotland is taking up a considerable amount of space on the bed, his frame looking even larger than usual in the narrow space. 

 

Scotland's clothes are thrown in a very haphazard fashion over the back of the single chair that is awkwardly squeezed between the wall and a nightstand, and France nearly succumbs to the urge to go and put them away properly on a hanger in the closet where they belong. But Scotland is idly flicking through the TV channels while lying naked on the top of the still neatly made comforter, and so France decides that there are more pressing matters than the wellbeing of a suit. 

 

He carefully leans with his towel-clad hips on the door jamb, another useless but well-trained movement that he knows shows off the length of his legs in the most spectacular way. 

 

“Starting without me?” France is forced to speak louder than planned as he has to contend with the sound of the weather forecast currently filling the room. 

 

Scotland startles and nearly crushes the remote as he scrambles to switch off the telly, then the bed dips as he turns on one elbow with an eager grin. “Took you so long, I thought I'd have to do this on my own.” 

 

-

 

' _This_ ' is a very practical and, as France likes to compliment himself, also a smart agreement where he and Scotland meet in order to enjoy sex and the little bit of talk in-between, in a completely open and boundaries-free arrangement that first and foremost isn't a relationship. 'Allies with benefits', as Wales dubbed it once, was maybe a bit too flowery, but otherwise extremely fitting; bound together by centuries of intertwined history to the point when they couldn't imagine not meeting on at least semi-regular basis, but free from the heavy bonds of commitment. It’s the perfect solution for the twenty-first century, and France is properly proud of introducing this plan to the both of them. 

 

' _This_ ' means fullness and heat and Scotland's thick beard scratching faint red marks where France's skin is particularly thin as they both are doing their best effort to make the bed sheets as unrecognisably tousled as possible. It's the sinking into the surprisingly yielding hotel mattress under Scotland’s weight. The whole world - together with the neon lights stinging in his eyes - overshadowed by his broad shoulders. 

 

' _This_ ' is everything that France needs, or so he managed to persuade himself.

-

France feels like betraying his reputation just by thinking about the fact, but there are moments - usually compressed into the first few seconds after waking up, ugly piercing sun hurting his whole body through his bleary eyes - when he regrets having sex instead of sleeping the previous night. Especially the fact that he managed to persuade Scotland to try out if they both fit into the shower stall for their third round sometime around four in the morning (they didn’t, but leaning against the sink with a full-length mirror right in front of him made up for the fact quite nicely).

 

Deliberately pushing all sort of heretic thoughts out of his mind by visualising a nice, warm cup of double espresso, drop of half-skimmed milk and maybe an oversweet, fluffy pastry at the side, France bravely opens his eyes once again to greet the day. 

 

He is met by a solid wall of dim grey fabric that he on second blinking identifies as Scotland’s back, and France notes with a bit of satisfaction that it isn’t nearly as crumpled as ‘might have been predicted by yesterday’s careless treatment’. He groans - the sound is closest to what a cat makes when held against its will in somebody’s arms for too long - and that’s enough to make Scotland turn to him and smile. 

 

Now, under normal circumstances, France loves when Scotland smiles, especially if he’s the root cause; but this specific sort of morning grin is just plain annoying. It’s absurdly broad and holds within it a cheerfulness that should by rights not be allowed to exist before ten AM. 

 

“You’ll miss your flight.” Scotland says instead of a greeting, the statement accompanied by a poignant tap on his wristwatch that he just finished fastening.

 

For a millisecond, France genuinely contemplates quitting his role of an old and highly respected nation, pulling the sheets over his head and going back to sleep, the consequences of a missed meeting or two be damned. Instead, he makes another displeased mewling sound and hauls himself into a sitting position, blinking in disorientation in the obscenely sunlit room. He focuses on Scotland, if only because the dark of his jacket doesn’t hurt in his eyes as much as the shiny white walls all around, and asks the first logical question that comes to his mind. 

 

“Where is your tie?”

 

“Meeting is over, I don’t need one.” Scotland’s grin doesn’t leave his face for a second as he leans forward for a kiss.

 

France’s reaction is immediate and automatic - he squeezes his lips in a tight line, face wrinkled in distaste.

 

No matter how many times Scotland assures him he doesn’t mind petty things like morning breath, France won’t allow kissing before his mouth had a long and thorough confrontation with toothpaste and possibly mouthwash too (Scotland’s arguments of “I’ve smelt far worse things.” doesn’t exactly help either). 

 

Scotland pulls away after a short and thoroughly unsatisfying peck, his grin of a considerably diminished level of shininess. 

 

“When do will I see you next?” he asks as he bends down to retrieve his briefcase and starts fighting with the lock. It’s likely a bit rusty after everything it‘s suffered at Scotland’s hands over the years, if not decades of overuse. France sighs and finally starts to untangle the sheets that magically managed to wrap themselves around both of his ankles at least three times during the night, and see fit to carry on doing so even now. 

 

“Presidential elections this month, I’ll be probably too busy to sleep for at least three weeks.”

 

“Have fun with that!” Scotland’s tone is full of childish glee that’s designed to provoke a touch of annoyance as he bends over the contents of his briefcase

 

France would slap him were he not out of the current reach of his arms or still too lazy to get out of bed. “Remind me to make fun of you once you have your own elections to manage.”

 

“Can’t wait.” The ancient lock on Scotland’s briefcase closes and he straightens up from where he was crouching over its contents, and he leans once again over France and presses a kiss to the crown of his tousled hair. “Good luck with all the fuss.”

 

France’s lips curl upwards for the first time that day. “I’ll call you once it’s over.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> President is curious.

The French presidential plane’s interior is lush with cream coloured leather and high-polished tables, and France could cry tears of happiness, such a treat is this flight after months of the plastic-reeking, uncomfortably crowded and incompetent personnel equipped budget flights he is usually subjected to. 

As protocol demands, he is accompanying his new president on his first overseas visit, which happens to be a twelve hour flight to Washington. Apart from enjoying the little bit of luxury around him, France is on another mission today: to exchange a word or two with Hollande, who still seems to be a bit baffled by France’s existence.

Hollande took the news  - delivered on the day of his inauguration, no less - that his nation has a living and breathing personification rather well. France has definitely seen worse; everything from screaming through laughter all the way up to pretending he doesn’t exist at all.  Hollande barely clenched his jaw as he suppressed the first words that probably came to his mind, shook France’s hand with a lukewarm grip, and even forced out a clipped, “It’s a pleasure”. 

France would have given him ten out of ten for his calm reaction, were it not for the stealthy looks that Hollande cast his secretary and two older ministers, as if waiting for somebody to tell him it was a traditional joke every new president had to endure, some sort of test of his reliability or sanity, or both.

And it’s not as if France could be offended by this behaviour; he himself loves to promote the Marianne cult and it’s no wonder new bosses are shocked that he is missing brown corkscrew locks or a tricolor cockade slapped onto his nonexistent but very ample bosom.

Patience is key in adjusting human minds to the nation concept, and so France defers further confrontation until they are both in the informal space of a plane cabin, with plenty of champagne ready at hand if necessary. 

He gives Hollande some two hours to admire his new service plane, and then waits until he sits down into one of the high-backed chairs that are upholstered so generously that they look as though they could swallow the person sitting in them. With a casual nod instead of a greeting, France sinks into the second chair opposite him, effectively making Hollande startle, as if he knew this confrontation would happen but didn’t expect it so soon.

“I’m glad you are accompanying me,” Hollande starts. He is obviously trying to sound friendly but nevertheless can’t stop the curious look with which he is piercing France, as if trying to find any signs of un-humanity. Green antennae would surely be a nice touch.  “Mr... ah, Mr. France.”

“No need to be so formal.” France crosses his legs and returns the smile; it’s such a relief to have actual leg space during a long flight. “Please feel free to use my human name if it’s easier for you. Many diplomats prefer it.

“Mr. Bonnefoy,” Hollande says with obvious relief, “I have to admit, I’m still rather... puzzled by the things I was told about you.” 

“That’s completely natural.” France can’t help but sound a bit patronizing as he looks at his fresh new confused president. Twenty-four of them and France still feels as if they were his dearest children instead of higher authorities. “You will soon meet more nations, America in a few hours and later the others during EU negotiations.”

Hollande looks as if he wants  to ask seven questions at the same time and couldn’t decide on their priority. He ultimately tries, “How do you get on? With America, I mean.”

“Splendid.” France is surprised; he didn’t expect this question, most humans ask about the immortality first. “Of course there are matters of disagreement between our politics, but we have been on good terms ever since his independence.”

“Right, the Liberty statue and all...” Hollande’s high forehead is lined with wrinkles as he nods, then it suddenly clears up as he looks in mild shock at France. “I’m just realizing you were probably there as the statue was built.”

France chuckles at the delightful memory. “Oh yes, I was there indeed. It was a lovely occasion.”

Hollande is quiet for a moment, then tries in a careful voice, his curiosity obviously overpowering the discretion that would under normal circumstances prevent him from asking. “And on a more... personal level?”

“America is a friendly young man with a sunny disposition, very likable.” France decides it’s too early to gossip with his new president and chooses a neutrally positive answer. “He is a lot like a little brother to me, in a way, and I’m proud to say that I taught him a lot when he was younger.”

Hollande now seems to be mulling over these answers, maybe trying to imagine America’s personification - France would bet the worth of the plane he is sitting in that the image is wearing a tophat and also using its forefinger in a very persuasive pointing gesture.

“Does that mean that...” Hollande asks in afterthought to his thinking pause, “that good international relations mean close personal bonds between countries?”

“Depends.” France rearranges his legs so that he can sit more comfortably, if only smoking could be allowed on board... Hollande has an interesting way of thinking about facts and France admits he likes it. “We naturally try to persuade our rulers or government to maintain close bonds with those we are fond of, but sometimes we inevitably end up at each other’s swordpoint, feelings or not.”

Hollande’s face sinks in something that France decides to read as compassion - which is a touching gesture, really, although he has no way of understanding how it feels to lead an army to fight the man in whose arms one fell asleep two weeks before. 

“Does that mean that personal relationships are completely out of question?” Hollande asks, voice mirroring the compassion in his face.

“Ah no, of course not.” France pauses with his head inclined to the side as he tries to find the right words that would explain the precarious matter. “There are nations in long-term relationships with other nations, but some of us prefer to not step into that sort of commitment.”

“Is monogamy scary, like it is for some of us?” Hollande finally squeezes out a faint smile, probably relieved by the fact that nations are a bit more human than he thought.

“It’s more... foresight, I would say.”  France resorts to airy gestures, wrists rolling as he is trying to explain his point. “It can be very unwise to show open affection to just one nation. As it may close up a lot of other bonds since no two nations have the same allies and enemies.”

“Oh, I understand.” Hollande nods, lips falling lower as he clearly sees this obstacle as very unfortunate. “Does your government have a say in this?”

“Let’s say it’s a mutual agreement between nations and their rulers.” France notes how Hollande still doesn’t count himself as a part of government, apparently. It’s oddly cute. “It’s been a good tradition for the country of France to not indulge in committed relationships, whether it was the wish of my king or my parliament.”

Hollande pushes the glasses up his nose as he looks sideways at France, one eyebrow raised in question. “Isn't it ironic for the Country of love?”

To this, France just shrugs with his palms facing the plane ceiling. “Exactly because I'm the country of love, I couldn’t possibly bind my affection to just one person, don't you think?”

Hollande opens his mouth as if to say his thoughts on this statement, but the beep of the seatbelt sign together with their pilot’s voice announcing possible turbulences over the Azores, makes them both effectively forget the conversation.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America is a romantic.

America of course is a sweetheart and lets him stay in his house instead of the hotel, an offer that France welcomes all the more after seven hours of stiff diplomatic talk and an even stiffer formal dinner. Granted, when accompanied by the president, France’s accommodation would be of considerably better standard than usual, but even the sparkliest brass knob bathtub and snobbiest room service aren’t worth the continued diplomatic conversations that would inevitably await him there.

 

America’s guest room is full of mismatched furniture and more kitsch than France could collect in Paris in three weeks, obscure second-hand shops included, but the patchwork quilt on the top of the large bed is hand-sewn and radiates welcoming warmth.

 

A thorough shower leaves France refreshed and more awake than he expected after the long flight, and he briefly contemplates calling Scotland, maybe even trying to coax him to a bit of phone sex. The idea is promptly vetoed as he imagines how Scotland’s inevitable rant on the costs of international calls would drain every last bit of pleasure from the eventual dirty talk (wonders of skype calls are still a matter he has yet to introduce into their sex life).

 

Which is a pity, really, as France loves listening to Scotland’s voice, and not necessarily only when he is describing breathily where his large hands would wander should the Atlantic not separate them. Scotland’s voice is low and booming, like a heavy cloak worn on a frosty day, and France feels a faint shiver spread around his shoulder blades as he remembers its timbre.

 

He contemplates wanking off but decides in the end it’s not worth showering a second time. Instead, he pulls on his black bathrobe and pads down the creaking staircase into the kitchen, faint hope America will have some decaf available to warm up his lonely soul lighting his way.

 

-

 

He didn’t expect his host to be still up as it’s long past sensible waking hours, but there is light seeping from the open kitchen door and also _crunching_ , which France can hear already from the second staircase landing

 

The crunching sound turns out to be a pack of oreos that America is devouring with the vigour of a starving caterpillar, a pint glass of milk ready at his elbow. He is wearing striped boxers and a T-shirt emblazoned with some comic themed atrocity that France would be afraid to touch, lest the geekiness be contagious, and he looks oddly lost in the large kitchen, hunched over the table with his knees under his chin and only the kitchenette’s light on.

 

“Mind if I join you?”

 

France realizes belatedly he should have made his presence known in a more subtle way than with a loud greeting that apparently came from nowhere, although, the choking that America partakes in is still a little bit of an overreaction in France’s opinion.

 

He hurries over to pat America’s back, mildly horrified he might have to perform Heimlich maneuver on somebody at least a quarter heavier than he is himself, but half the pint of milk that America drowns in three large gulps seem to do the trick.

 

“Dammit, you scared me, France!” America wipes his mouth with the bottom of his T-shirt, breathing heavily.

 

France decides he is in too sorry a state to be scolded for childish mannerisms and simply pats America’s overly tanned forearm and then drags a chair to sit next to him.

 

“Can’t sleep?”

 

America groans and slumps back in his seat. “It’s like my brain doesn’t get it that it’s night already and goes on and on about all the shit that happened during the day.”

 

“I know more than well how that feels, America.” France adds another comforting forearm pat.

 

America remembers his good manners and pushes the oreo pack so that it stands between them. “Need a glass for the milk?”

 

“No, thank you.” France isn’t too fond of cold milk but gladly picks one of the less crumbled biscuits.

 

America soon goes back to his crunching and France watches for a while, amused; despite the speed with which America is gobbling them down, he still finds the time to divide each of them and lick off the cream first, then sticking the two halves back together and dumping it into the milk before its untimely consumption. Like a messy child.

 

“At least we can catch up a bit, since timezones ruined my sleeping habits as well.” France notes as he starts nibbling on his own biscuit, which proceeds to crumble to smaller pieces that fall through his fingers onto the black satin of his dressing gown.

 

“Yeah!” America seems to brighten up at the prospect, or maybe it’s the sugar level in his blood being finally high enough. “How’s your new president?”

“I’m not complaining.” France considers the moment too tranquil to disturb it with his insights on the Socialist party and concentrates on collecting the crumbs from his thighs instead. “You are probably knee-deep in your own presidential campaign.”

 

“Don’t even mention it.” America stops chewing and actually glares at the half-eaten oreo in his fingers. “They‘re like packs of hungry wolves, I get headaches constantly and it’s not even June.”

 

The pout America is using is dangerous as it rouses France’s most basic paternal instincts, the ones that make his fingers itch for a pot and a chicken and some carrots and parsley too, everything necessary for a good nutritious broth for his little troubled boy.

 

He waves the urges away as he reaches for a second biscuit. “Well, that too is the democracy that we wanted.”

 

“Let’s not talk about politics.” Criticism of democracy clearly doesn’t work well with America, as his pale eyebrows pull into a firm line.

 

But, with another oreo, they relax again, and the childishly amused - slightly mischievous - smile lights his face again. “How are you?” he asks with excited interest, and then, leaning into France’s personal space to add in a conspiratorial whisper, “You know, with Scotland?”

 

France’s hand holding his third oreo sinks down to rest at the table. “Scotland?”

 

“Yeah! You guys doing fine?”

 

France is aware he sounds like a parent explaining basic logic to a particularly slow minded child, carefully forming every syllable. “America there is no 'us' with Scotland and me. We are merely... how do you call it, this friends with benefits thing?”

 

"Fuckbuddies?"

 

“Exactly.”

 

“Oh...” America pulls his hand back where he was reaching for another biscuit and lets his hands rest in his lap, palms up. “I thought you were together.”

 

He looks genuinely upset by the fact. It’s adorable.

 

“Now, now, why that sad face?” France tilts his head to the side as he continues in his best lecturing voice, “You know that this is a very normal solution for us older nations.”

 

“I’m not a little kid, France!”

 

“No, you’re not!” France lays a soothing hand on America’s shoulder, forgetting his own no-touching-of-the-nerdy-shirt-rules, and feels it would be too awkward to pull it back now. “You see, we were brought up in different times, and learned that the affection of a nation is easily misused if one is not being careful.”

 

“But we live in a different world now!” America's lower lip is still sticking out, voice hitting an irritating whinge of a tone. Such a spoilt child. “We don’t marry off princesses for the sake of alliances - France, you haven't even had a king for more than two hundred years!”

 

“That may be so, but it doesn't change the fact that avoiding monogamous relationships is still very beneficial for us.” France lets go of America’s shoulder in favour of pushing the oreo pack closer to him as he looks quite distressed. “You know yourself how politics can strain personal relationships. It's much worse if they are of the long-term, committed sort.”

 

America finally reaches on an oreo and distractedly starts to pull it apart. “But a whole bunch of us are an item now, even your generation.”

 

“Well, it’s everybody’s personal choice, of course.” France’s hands gesture resignation, to show that even he can’t change the mind of his fellow veterans. “But I’ve always avoided that sort of commitment for myself and plan to keep it that way.”

 

America falls silent as he expertly licks the cream from the biscuit, then pushes the remaining parts together and plops them into his mouth too. “And how about Scotland?” he asks, barely finished chewing.

 

France finds the persistence quite touching, but doesn’t hesitate as he says, “He is just as old as I am, he knows how these things work and wouldn’t want to change it.”

 

“Isn’t it sad?” America washes down the cookie with the last drops of milk in his glass and looks at France, the kitchenette’s light reflection making his large eyes even more dramatic.

 

France has to chuckle at such an adorable boy. “Now that's really just Hollywood speaking, isn’t it?”

 

America clearly wants to say something back but his opened mouth stretches into a yawn that he hastily covers with the back of his hand.

“It’s getting late.” France hops down from the chair and carefully cracks his spine back into place as he starts walking to the door. “I think we are both ready to sleep; remember the G8 meeting we have tomorrow an-”

 

“Don’t you love him?”

 

France’s arms stop in mid-air, uselessly hanging over his head. He knows there is a perfectly appropriate, smooth answer to this question but his brain refuses to cooperate, and the only thing it registers is a smudge from a sneaker sole left on the lino floor in front of him.

 

By the time he turns to face America, his smile is back. His fingers make an effort to fix the unkempt locks of America’s thick blonde hair, which are all tousled out of shape despite the fact it's not been in contact with a pillow yet.

 

“That really doesn’t have to do with the matter we were discussing, America.”

 

“But...”

 

“Good night!” France turns and is careful not to let America speak again as he exists the kitchen. “If I’m not up after seven, it means my phone isn’t working and I overslept, please bang on my door if that happens.”


End file.
